After an unseasonably cold spring, summer had come in with a vengeance, and the sun was shining bright on that afternoon at my mother's house in late June.

We were out back, sitting on patio chairs that were built with appearance in mind over comfort. It wasn't bothering me, but I could tell the wiry metal was taking a toll on Mom as she shifted around here and there, trying to get comfortable in her constant state of exhaustion. The heat wasn't helping either.

"Mom, let's go inside," I suggested, reaching for her hand and hoping for the best.

I would have no such luck.

"Sto bene," she mumbled, shooing me away to reach into her apron pocket.

She pulled out the apple she'd brought from the kitchen, along with a paring knife that had me holding my breath as the silver metal glinted in the sunshine.

It always made me nervous when she did that, carrying a knife around in her damn pocket. But her favorite way to eat apples was to cut slivers and eat them straight off the blade, and she'd hear no slander on something she'd been doing since she was a little girl. Wandering between her family's apple trees in the Italian countryside, always on the go.

I grumbled as she made the first slice. "It's hot out here and you should probably lay down for a little bit before we leave for therapy."

"I'm fine," Mom repeated, her eyes never leaving the apple in her hands. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"A few more, at least." I crossed my arms over my chest and looked out at the yard, skimming over the lush grass and along the trees. As soon as my eyes hit the hammock on the ground, I turned my attention back to my mother.

She chewed slowly, carefully, a frown sitting on her lips. It had been there since Dalton died. "The sun feels nice, Davina Grace," she said, finally sparing me a glance. "So, right now...I'm fine."

Holding her eyes for a moment, a touch of calm meandered into my chest, and I nodded. "Okay."

As we sat there in silence, a gust of summer wind blew through the trees. Mom looked at the fruit in her hands again, and I looked at her, watching as she slid the knife through the apple's flesh with expert precision.

As my mind recalled the many stories she'd told me and my brothers growing up, about the Italian village she was born in and the trees she loved so much, I imagined a younger version of her. Someone wide eyed and happy, the daughter of a reluctant baker who encouraged his daughter to do exactly as she pleased since he knew what it was like to be forced into work you didn't want to do.

Grandpa Enzo was one of three Farina brothers, born into a renowned family business that took an interesting turn when the eldest son, my great uncle Vincent, moved to America.

He found himself in Brighton, where a few deals were strung into place that would advance the small-time Farina bakery into a full fledged company. With the help of a few important people, that is.

Those people decided that Fairhaven would be the perfect place to launch their latest investment, the new and improved Farina Bread Co., and Uncle Vincent made quick work of bringing the rest of the family over.

It was the last thing Grandpa wanted to do, leave his home country and the apple orchard he tended with his wife and daughter, and just to make bread on an even larger scale? He hated the thought. But as fate would have it, he ended up not having a choice.

Mom was only ten years old when her mother died in a car accident shortly after. It was the first of many losses she'd suffer, and Grandpa Enzo couldn't raise her on his own. Since the rest of his family was spread between Brighton and Fairhaven by then, it was the only place to go that made sense.

I thought often about the gigantic shift that move must've caused in my mother's life after such a monumental loss. She never wanted to leave Italy, but children have so little input on the big things when they're small. 

Adjusting to America wasn't easy for her, and watching her on the patio that day, seeing the pain that lingered in her eyes and circulated through her body, it was clear the world only continued to withhold its kindness.

She was halfway through the apple when I checked my phone for the time. We had to leave in an hour. The physical therapy office was only a few minutes away, which I was grateful for as we wouldn't have to rush. I had to admit, I was kind of enjoying the quiet with Mom.

I leaned back in my chair, admiring the way her hair seemed to sparkle in the sun. At fifty-two, a rich brown was still holding strong, but her head was sprinkled with shiny strands of gray. I thought it looked sort of magical.

When she cut another piece of apple, she surprised me by not bringing it to her mouth, tossing it in the yard instead. It landed in the grass with a light plunk, and a small laugh escaped my mouth.

"What was that for?"

She turned to me with a rare smile and shrugged. "The deer, of course."

"Of course," I echoed, shaking my head.

"What?" Her smile grew and I relished in the pretty lines that formed around her lips, the evidence of wisdom and strength, emanating the happiness she managed to find amidst everything life threw at her. She held the apple up. "The deer love these Cosmo apples that Spencer brings over."

The sound of his name made my heart hiccup, but I stayed focused. "Cosmo? I've never heard of that variety."

"They're special. A hybrid from...Washington," she said slowly, eyebrows dipping together in thought. "No, they're not called Cosmo. It's..."

As her words trailed off, so did my mind...

Spencer's still bringing her apples?

That's so...sweet of him.

Shit. Stay focused, I reminded myself.

"Cosmo," Mom repeated, bringing me back to the patio. But then she shook her head, and her gaze breezed past mine on the way to study the clouds, looking embarrassed.

It made my chest ache. One of her first symptoms was brain fog, and it had only gotten worse in the eight years since her MS diagnosis.

"Well, whatever they're called," she continued softly. "Spencer picks them up from a grocery store all the way over in Renlow Park since the market in town doesn't carry them."

"That's nice of him," I muttered, allowing myself to feel another ache entirely. That confusing and kind, insufferable soul of his. "Should you really be sharing them with the deer? I mean, if he goes to all that trouble to bring you special apples from three towns over, maybe the deer can have something else."

"Why shouldn't they get the good stuff, Davina?" When she looked over at me again, I was happy to see a touch of mischief in her eyes, the business of her forgetfulness left behind. "Are they less worthy since they're animals?"

"Well, no, but..."

"They were here first, you know."

"Yes, I know," I grumbled. My mother, the animal advocate. "But that just means they know their way around the forest and can find their own apples."

"Ahh," Mom scoffed and waved a dismissive hand in my direction. "Sembri tuo padre."

Her words straightened my spine. Most of her Italian escaped me, but I understood that statement loud and clear.

"I do not sound like Dad," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "I'm nothing like him."

Mom turned to face me, head tilted in thought, studying me in her way. Five seconds passed while she deliberated over a response, and I spent all of them worried. Hoping I hadn't just hurt her feelings. Or, worse—started an argument I wasn't ready for.

Since he got locked up, Mom and I famously avoided the topic of Dad and his involvement with The Amato Group. She knew how I felt about his job and I knew how she felt about him. It was always ugly when those principles clashed.

Eventually, Mom looked back out at the yard. "Your father hates when I feed the animals," she sighed, her chosen response coming out contemplative and a little sad.

I wondered immediately if fighting words would have been better. I hated when my mother was sad, and I hated it even more when she spoke about Dad like he was still here. He may have been alive, but he would never be here again.

"He never stops me though. He knows who he married," she continued, her eyes coming back to meet mine. When a sudden laugh burst from her mouth, it caught me by surprise, and I nearly jumped in my seat. "When we first met, it was at that park behind the pharmacy. The same one I used to bring you and the boys to. Do you remember it, Davina Grace?"

"I think so." I nodded eagerly. Despite knowing that her memory trail was leading to a story about her and Dad, I was happy to get lost on the path with her when I saw how excited she was to share it. "The one with the big yellow slide?"

"Yes, that's the one," she said, her smile growing. "Your father was on the tennis court with his friend when their ball came flying in my direction. I'd been feeding saltine crackers to a very friendly groundhog."

"Oh, Mom..." I shook my head.

She didn't miss a beat. "The tennis ball scared him away though, and when your father appeared to collect it, I was very cross with him."

"I'm sure you were."

"I told him he had no business hitting that stupid ball so high that it went over the fence and scared my furry friend away."

I laughed at that and she laughed with me. Her mood was so infectious, I even found myself urging her to go on. "And what did Dad say to that?"

"He said..." She paused, humming a little as the memory worked its way out through a gleam in her eyes, manifesting in the tilt of her smile. "I thought you'd be impressed by my swing," she quoted his words from that day so long ago. "But maybe I need a home underground and a rodent snout to claim the attention of a pretty girl like you."

I grimaced at the cheesiness of it all. "Mom, tell me you didn't fall for that line."

"Of course I fell for it. Your father is a very charming man."

That statement, paired with her longing sigh, pulled the conversation into disconcerting territory. I shifted around on my chair as the silence simmered between us, thick with the remnants of my mother's happiness, forcing me to acknowledge the fact that David Harlow had left such different impressions on each of us.

I knew Mom was as disappointed about his incarceration as I was. But she'd also fallen in love with him, and love is a fortress strong enough to fend off the most heinous of indiscretions.

The love he gave her was something she could still hold onto. Mine turned into mistrust and daddy issues.

And yet, as Mom smiled to herself and leaned back in her chair, looking comfortable for the first time all day, I allowed her to bask in her memories and humanize my father with her stories of the past. It was good for both of us, if only for the afternoon.

"I miss him." She looked down at her hands, fingers fiddling together. "Mostly I miss him for the big things, you know?"

Her eyes lifted to mine, pleading for sympathy I wasn't good at giving. In recent years, Dad was terrible at the big things. It's why we all grew up too fast, why our family crumbled to pieces.

"But sometimes it's the little stuff," she continued, her voice softening. "Like how he was so good at fixing things. I could use him around the house these days. Dante is so busy. And Susan is nice, but she's a nurse, not a handyman."

I immediately went on alert. "What needs fixed around the house?"

"Just the stove lamp flickering again and the handrail in my shower is loose."

"What do you mean it's loose?" I asked her, panic filling my tone. "Didn't Dante just replace it for you?"

"No..." Confusion marred her face. "He doesn't need to replace it. It's just loose."

"Mom..." I groaned, but my frustration was neither helpful nor her fault. The blame was all on Dante. And myself, I suppose, for relying on him. "The handrail in your shower wasn't just loose. It was broken. Dante was supposed to replace it. Did he forget? When was he here last?"

"Maybe three weeks." She looked out at the yard. "He's busy, Davina. He needs to work."

Three weeks. Which meant he hadn't been to see her at all since I mentioned the handrail being broken, two weeks ago.

I would have fixed it myself, but Dante insisted he knew someone who could get a new handle for cheap and that he'd take care of it. Silly me, I thought he'd follow through.

Just like that, my mood was shot as worry sank in my gut like a rock. Mom couldn't go without a handrail in her shower. Her day to day mobility was too limited, too unpredictable to go without a safety cushion like that.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, feeling defeated. We all knew she couldn't rely on Dad anymore, but it would seem she couldn't rely on the rest of us either. "I'll swing by the store after I drop you off at therapy."

***

My task was easy enough. Go into Larry's Hardware, grab what I needed, and get out of there. Do not get distracted by the gardening and outdoors department.

Do not stop and look at the hammocks.

Yeah right. I totally stopped to look at them.

In fact, I went out of my way to look at them, considering the bathroom fixtures were located right at the front of the store and the outdoor section was all the way at the back. But what can I say? 

I loved looking through the selection, seeing the different varieties of those lovely swinging beds, and imagining I had a place to hang one. My tiny backyard was dismally lacking in strong trees.

Of course, there are hammocks that hang on a base and can be put on a patio, but it's just not the same. I yearned for the full experience, to swing under the trees and watch the clouds. That couldn't be done under my townhouse's decrepit awning.

Setting the handrail down on a patio display table, my eyes skimmed the assortment of hammocks at Larry's. Big and small, a few colors to choose from. They were all so pretty, but one in particular kept snagging at my attention.

The material was a bright coral canvas that would look extra nice against a landscape of greens and blues, and it was twice the size of the other ones.

A hammock made for two.

My thoughts traveled to Spencer as they often did when this topic was on my mind, remembering the promises he'd made after lightning hit the maple tree when I was fourteen.

Knowing how much that hammock meant to me, he was determined to make it better. And since the twin maple was destroyed, the simplest solution was to relocate.

When he and Dalton would wander through the woods behind our house, I'd tag along most days, even though I hated hiking. There were always so many noises out there in the trees, and you never knew what kind of creature was making them.

As Dalton charged ahead of us, Spence and I would drag behind. He'd let me hang onto his backpack or tug on his shirt as he guided me along the mossy trails, over thick roots, and through the brush. Sometimes, he held my hand. And whenever he saw a good pair of trees, he was quick to point them out.

"Right there, Diva Davina. That's a good spot."

It made my heart sing every time. He'd stare at me with those wolf eyes and a boyish grin on his face, making sure Dalton wasn't in ear shot when he reminded me to make room in the hammock so he could lay beside me.

A hammock for two...

It was a nice thought. Nothing ever came of it though, and I had myself to blame.

I stopped talking about the hammock so much, kept myself busy with other things, and eventually—the idea sort of fizzled out as high school went on. But Spence still mentioned it from time to time.

Just say the word and I'll hang one in my backyard. Just for you. I promise.

I promise.

Something shimmered in my stomach. I found myself grabbing my phone, and without thinking, I fired off a text.

Davina: Hi Spencer...

He responded delightfully, or dismally, fast.

Spence: Hello Davina...

As soon as I read his text, the weight of my actions froze me where I was standing, and I stared at my phone like an idiot.

What now? What am I doing?

I didn't have a plan. I was going off of pure nostalgic inspiration, which was never a good idea with Spence. It's not like I could come out with it, say I was perusing the hammocks and it made me think of him.

That wasn't us anymore. We exchanged texts for one thing and one thing only. And since we'd already done that thing the day before, I couldn't be out here looking thirsty, instigating another round so soon. 

Stupid. This was stupid.

Itching for a save, I looked around. Still sitting on the patio display table was the replacement shower rail, and the idea hit me with a jolt.

Davina: Thanks for bringing my mom those special apples.

This time, his response was slower coming. I held my breath for no good reason.

Spence: Anytime, Diva Davina. 

Davina: Do you happen to know what they're called? She couldn't remember the name.

Spence: Cosmic. If you ever need to grab them yourself, you can find them at Shop-Rite in RP. By that old gas station with the vintage pumps.

His attention to detail made me smile.

Davina: Thanks :)